


Brushes of Blue

by fmt



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 02:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8647558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fmt/pseuds/fmt
Summary: Draco does something a little outrageous and Harry can't help but notice.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Characters belong to J.K.Rowling <3

Malfoy has blue eyelashes. He didn’t always, Harry is fairly certain. Not that he’s spent a lot of time looking at Malfoy’s eyelashes, of course. But these – he doesn’t see how he couldn’t have noticed them. Because Malfoy has lashes that are long and curly and brush the high planes of his cheekbones when he shuts his eyes and honestly, really fucking blue.  
He’s always been good looking of course (and known it too, that bugger) – years of selective breeding certainly don’t leave one looking ordinary. But now, with the blue, Malfoy’s features are ethereal rather than pointy, otherworldly rather than aristocratic. And Harry can’t stop looking. Can’t figure him out. Are they a charm or something more mundane? A muggle method perhaps? Normally Harry would have dismissed any theory involving muggles immediately, but if one thing has become certain in his eighth year at Hogwarts, its that Malfoy’s vanity knows no bounds. That and his pride, the most curious of combinations that led Malfoy to come bouncing up to the three of them (Ron and Hermione linked by sickening, intertwining pinky fingers) and apologize softly, earnestly all the while tapping one high heeled boot against his leg. Ron and Hermione had seemed to shrug and accept it (“It’s all different now”, Hermione had said. “Don’t you see?”), while Harry was left staring in shock as Malfoy flounced off.  
Harry seemed to be doing a lot of that these days. He couldn’t help it really. He knew Hermione had noticed, but she only raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and went back to snogging Ron. Luna probably knew as well – she kept sidling up to him between meals and classes and whispering about nargles till he thought his head would explode. But this – This – this was the final straw. Harry decided (shaking his head a little at the Gryffindor breakfast table to clear it) that if Ron didn’t kill him, Malfoy would, and if Malfoy didn’t, those eyelashes would, so what was the point in delaying the inevitable.  
Gathering every last drop of his supposed Gryffindor courage (he had never really believed in that codswollop anyway) and draining his glass of pumpkin juice for good measure, Harry rose from the table and marched his way across the Great Hall, coming to a halt in front of the Slytherin table. Across the table, Pansy Parkinson has fallen still mid bite – a spoon carrying granola and berries to her mouth hovers in mid air.  
Glancing up to see the source of her panic, Malfoy blinks slowly and makes direct eye contact with Harry, grey eyes widening first with surprise than with a glint of something Harry can’t quite place.  
“Hey, Malfoy”, Harry manages to stammer out. His mind races furiously to come up with something, anything but all he can conjure are tired clichés and god, this was a terrible idea.  
Malfoy looks around the table, to his left and right, before responding, as if Harry was somehow speaking to another Malfoy. Finding no other, he turns back to face Harry, whose brain is still not working, because that’s really the only possible explanation for what he blurts out next.  
“Are those…your eyelashes… are they, you know, are they real?”. Its only half in jest that Harry wishes for another crack at Voldemort, because really nothing can be worse than this.  
Malfoy glances down at the table, where a steaming mug of black coffee sits, seemingly his only nourishment for the meal, and back up again in slow confusion.  
“Sort of, you know”. Harry, who doesn’t know, manages to give a jerky nod anyway and commands his body to move. 

It doesn’t.  
“It’s a muddle dye, but its magically charmed to be safe and rather…permanent”. Malfoy’s voice cuts through his fog. He sounds amused rather than scornful as if he’s already answered this question a dozen times this morning and doesn’t even mind.  
“Permanent?” Harry, who hadn’t even considered the possibility that Malfoy might look like this for more than one day. When he looks up, Malfoy’s mouth has tilted into what might be considered a smile, if something so beautiful could be described in such a mundane way.  
“Rather”. Malfoy affirms solemnly. “Until I decide otherwise”.  
He’s definitely smiling now, maybe even laughing, but Harry doesn’t care. He throws any sense of self-preservation to the wind (he probably would have made a terrible Slytherin anyway) and swoops in to kiss each perfect eyelid, lips pressing above the graceful curves of blue.  
Somewhere in the background, he hears the clatter of a spoon, superimposed against an otherwise deathly silent Great Hall. Pansy it seems, has finally lost control of her granola. Harry doesn’t care. Because Draco is looking up at him, through eyes that shine, and always have and then warm, strong lips descend on his and the world as far as he can see, is perfect.


End file.
